


Tiger, Tiger

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, canon character/original character pairing, descriptions of child abuse/neglect, family violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your eyes are like moonlight, Mr. Zsasz." She whispers. "Like a tiger in the night.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiger, Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> The first segment in the "Tiger, Tiger" series; Iris DeLaine is an OFC which I have used previously on my fanfiction.net account (penname: Vytina), in different fandoms and in different contexts. She's undergone some revision and changes since then. This is the end result. I've also worked very hard to try and capture Anthony Carrigan's portrayal of Victor Zsasz on "Gotham". Constructive criticism is appreciated and welcomed. Thank you, and please enjoy!

The woods make up almost the entirety of the DeLaine private manor. The trees here are tall and grow in thick clusters, blotting out almost all light, save for the occasional patch where sun—or, as the case presently stands, moonlight—is able to break through the branches and brush broken paths along the ground below. Tonight, the silver rays from above highlight the early frost clinging to dirt, fallen leaves, and bits of bark, all scattered idly along the undefined path leading up to the manor.

It is a strange place, the DeLaine manor. The one in which Marcus and Maria DeLaine reside, within city limits, is a beacon of white marble and pristine lawns, and everyone knows exactly where it is and has seen it at least once in their lifetime. The private manor, however, is a very different story. Seemingly constructed from Grimm fairytale concepts and medieval architecture, it boasts a sprawling, extended existence and blends into the shadows with grace, assisted by the pitch-black exterior that, particularly at night, makes it virtually invisible to any one who might possibly be wandering about in this place. That being said, the windows betray its presence; they are large and tonight, many rooms in the house are well lit, including the foyer and its adjacent rooms, and the light stemming outward from the glass panes more or less announces the house to passerby.

Of course, it can be appreciated that this house likely has few visitors. It is unlisted on public records, and the contractors who know of its existence were well-paid for their silence. Fortunately, most sealed lips can be easily unsealed with the right persuasion. He’s found that looking down the barrel of a loaded gun is one such effective tool; a knife to the jugular is equally productive. He used both to find this place, just for the sake of variety.

He almost matches the house perfectly, its black exterior with his black attire, as he makes his way between trees, up the polished staircase, through the towering arched entryway, and inside the unlocked front door. It amazes him, really, how little people think to lock their doors. It is a very sad statement of human failings, and equally proof of their lacking common sense, that even in the middle of the woods, in a place no one is supposed to find, some people think they are safe. He expected better, especially from the likes of Marcus DeLaine. One would think he’d be smart enough to know he’s made enemies with the wrong people, and the wrong people have access to special individuals who can find what is never meant to be found.

He pauses, briefly, within the foyer, just to take in the surroundings and give his eyes time to adjust. For all that the exterior is black, the interior is, quite literally, the polar opposite. White. White walls, white carpet, white tile, white furniture…white everywhere and on everything. It’s a little nauseating, actually.

From the left, in a room just around the corner, he can hear a very… _animated_ conversation taking place. Curiously enough, he doesn’t recognize either of the languages being used—and there are at least two different ones, possibly a third, or that could just be one of the two distorted by the effects of liquor—but he’s quite certain neither one was ever meant to be used in the manner it is now, and at the levels both speakers are projecting at one another.

Shaking his head lightly, as though it will soothe his eardrums from the ruckus, he strolls forward, down the tiled hallway and towards a different part of the foyer. Here, much to the relief of his eyes, the white haze is interrupted by a large piano. While he won’t pretend to know much about musical instruments, and cares even less, he will admit it is a very impressive piece. Dark polished wood, golden accents, and ivory keys that gleam pleasantly under the light; its bench sports a red velvet cushion and is just as intricately-carved as the piano itself. Someone put a great deal of time and effort into constructing it.

And, unlike most grand pianos, this one is not just for show. It’s being put to use.

He’ll admit, silently, the girl isn’t what he’d expected. With their reputation across town, including rumors of a marriage that left the honeymoon phase some time ago, he’d thought, perhaps, the offspring of this unfortunate union would be an image straight from fairytales: bruised and battered, dirty and half-starved, with rags for her dress and her feet uncovered.

But he was wrong.

Seated there on the piano bench, small white hands playing an idle tune with grace and skill, she looks like a little porcelain doll. Her dress and stockings are white, lace and soft cotton, and her feet are tucked inside a pair of polished white shoes. And then, like an ink stain, her mass of black curls hang down her back, secured with a white silk ribbon. They look soft, full, and the lights play across them quite nicely.

He takes a few idle steps forward, then pauses, rests his hands at both sides, and breaks the peace of her music-inspired reverie. “You’re Iris, right?”

Her hands pause atop the keys, breaking the melody mid-note. After a short pause, she slowly turns to look at him. She says nothing, doesn’t get off the bench, and looks wholly unsurprised at his presence. It’s a flat expression across her face, not quite unimpressed but not afraid or uncertain. Her eyes are the same: hollow, vacant, devoid of emotion or reaction.

He steps forward, cocking his brow at her. Then, as though she remembers her lack of response, she nods her dark head. Not the verbal confirmation he was looking for, but he’ll take it.

“Hello, Iris,” he continues, closing the distance between them a little more; she doesn’t move or look uncomfortable with the diminishing proximity, “my name is Victor. Victor Zsasz.”

She blinks, dark eyelashes fluttering down and snapping back open in one fluid motion. “Victor,” she repeats, very quietly, almost inaudible over the racket her parents are making down the hall, “from the Latin, meaning _conqueror_.”

Well. _Well, well._ He’ll be the first to admit he didn’t know the roots of his name, nor did he really need to know, but nevertheless, he finds he actually likes knowing. _**Conqueror.**_ He especially likes the sound of that.

He closes the distance between them with three more steps. “You seem like a very smart girl to me.” He comments, pausing in front of her with his head tilted to one side. “Tell me…do you know who Don Carmine Falcone is?”

She blinks. There’s a definite glimmer of recognition in her eyes, even if her facial expression doesn’t reflect as much. And she’s still polite enough to nod her agreement. He continues, smoothly, “Your father has made Don Falcone very upset, Iris.”

Her blue eyes blink again, still empty, and she looks more like a doll than ever. “Father makes many people very upset.” She whispers; he notices her hands fold together, with perfect posture, and rest lightly in her dress folds. After a short pause, she adds, in a very quiet, equally emotionless murmur, “Is that why you are here, Mr. Zsasz?”

He could answer immediately, get it all out there in the open, set the terms out and let the girl know why he was there and that when he left, the DeLaine family would be one member short. But that would be too quick, and he doesn’t like things quick. He likes to enjoy his work, savor it, revel in it.

He crouches down, hands loose between his legs, and meets her gaze on her level. Again, she blinks. She looks like she already knows the answer and is now resigned to playing his game. Not quite the active participation he prefers, but they’ll get to that later. He is a patient creature, and he plans to take his time with her.

“Why don’t we take a walk outside?”

***

The girl is wholly underdressed for such temperatures; the flimsy lace and cotton of her pressed and starched gown does nothing to protect her, with a knee-length hem and capped sleeves. She hasn’t shivered too much, at least not obviously, as he leads them through the woods, farther and farther from the manor, but her breath has escaped every so often in short little puffs of fog, her warm exhales visible once they hit the cold night air, and her arms have been woven tightly around herself since they first left the house.

The cold does not affect him, as a general rule, and tonight is no exception. Even if he was one to succumb easily, the blood pumping through his veins is hot, spreading warmth throughout his limbs as though he was standing before a blazing hearth. If anything, he savors the cold, relishes it, drinks it in and appreciates with no small delight at what a cold night like this will do to a human body. Specifically, a human body slowly bleeding out in the darkness. Will the blood freeze before it even begins to flow, or will the stream come slowly, like molasses, creeping along the flesh before finally coming to a sluggish halt?

After several long minutes, when he can no longer see the lights or glimpse the manor’s outline through the shadows, he stops. There is a clearing in this spot, where moonlight bathes them unencumbered by trees, and he takes a moment to pause, to linger in silence. It is the silence, the sudden wait, which unnerves people. Most latch onto it as a chance for escape, to plead for their lives and make bargains. They interpret the pause as hesitation, uncertainty, the possibility they might have a chance to get out of this alive.

He waits for her to make the same error in judgment, but it never comes. Five long minutes, he waits, but she says nothing. Finally, both curious and slightly annoyed at her continued lack of participation, he turns around and finds her staring not at him, but up at the sky. She stares as though she has never seen the night sky before, like it is some wondrous thing to behold and she must drink it in because there will never be another time that she’ll see it.

The moonlight, admittedly, plays wonderfully across her young, smooth features, highlighting her cheekbones, the delicate shape of her throat and collarbone, and pooling within her blue eyes until they burn. Burn like a flame.

Blinking away the intrigue, he decides it’s time to drop the act and get to the point, since she clearly is distracted and possibly even forgetting that she’s in the company of a stranger. He slips a hand inside his jacket and withdraws a box cutter. With a slow, purposeful movement, he steps closer, regaining her attention, and exposes the blade. He watches her face, drinking in the way her eyes see the rusted bloodstains that have never been cleaned away. With a few short steps, he closes the distance once more and stands before her, the blade in his hand and a calm expression on his face.

“I’m having some trouble deciding how to do this,” he declares, “so I’m going to let _you_ choose, Iris.”

She blinks, but says nothing. One hand slips around the back of her head, cupping gently, brushing his thumb over her curls, and then tugs it back with equal tenderness. Not too far, of course, because then he’ll lose the connection with her eyes, but enough that her throat is exposed. He lifts the blade once more to her eyes, ensuring he has her undivided attention, and then brings it back down, less than an inch from her exposed skin.

“If I cut you right _here_ ,” he whispers, pressing the tip just lightly to the tender dip where her throat and collarbone meet, “it will take about thirty minutes for you to die.”

He moves the blade, with a little more pressure this time, to another part of her neck; his inner eye can almost see the blood pumping, the beat of her pulse just below the thin layer of pale flesh, and already the vision of warm red blood seeping outward in a steady stream is formulating within his mind, practically within his grasp, and he continues, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, voice barely above a whisper, “And if I cut you _here_ ,” he presses more firmly, “you’ll die in about five minutes.”

Never blinking, never once wanting to lose sight of her face, he finishes in the same whisper, “Which one, Iris?”

He expects whimpering, tears, pleading, begging. He expects sobbing implorations for mercy, to see her fall to the ground, on her knees with hands clasped, tears streaming down her face. He expects that little façade of hers to come crashing down, to be exposed for the ridiculous bravado that it is.

Instead, she stares up at him, transfixed, but not with terror. Her expression is calm, serene, without a crease of concern to wrinkle her smooth complexion, but her eyes are filled with wonder, as though she is seeing something utterly extraordinary and inspiring. And then, without a pause or hint of hesitation, she reaches up with one fragile hand and touches his, the one holding a knife to her throat, and curls her thin fingers around his knuckles. A delicate, tender touch, soft and gentle and warm.

“Moonlight.”

Her whisper is startling, unnerving. He stares down at her, for the first time in his life at a loss for words. And she is undeterred by his silence, as he previously was with hers, only keeps her fingers on his knuckles, and again whispers, with gaze still awed and vibrant, “Your eyes are like moonlight, Mr. Zsasz. Like a tiger in the night.”

It hits him, hard, without warning; like a bullet through the lower gut, enough to inflict damage even if not kill. His carefully composed demeanor falters. His control slips. His hand twitches and flexes around the blade, loosening its grip even though he manages not to drop it. His next breath escapes in a low, shuddering exhale, and his heart skips its rhythm, stutters a little, and then resumes a natural beat. His composure returns, but it’s too late. He has lost control, even if only for a moment, and she saw it.

On a sudden impulse, he slips his hand further into her curls, fingers seeking and reaching until finding the ribbon holding her hair back in place. He tugs, hard and firm, and the ribbon unravels to send curls tumbling loose and free around her face and neck and down her back, framing pale flesh in waves of black. He clenches the strip of silk tightly, crumpling it within his grip. He could use it around her neck, wrapping and wrapping and wrapping until the skin pinches and her last breath is taken and the light fades from her eyes. Her neck is so very thin. It would be easy.

At some point, he notes the ribbon has fallen to the ground, and his hand is within that dark mass of hair. Her curls are indeed like silk, like the ribbon but not, sliding and slipping through his fingers, escaping one minute and the next caught again. He wonders, suddenly, what it would be like to bury his face within this inky pool, draw in the scent of her hair, her skin. If she wears perfume at such a young age, or if the scent would be natural, something unique to her, untainted by the cheap measures women take to make themselves more appealing. His inner eye sees this thick curtain of ebony silk sprawled across the ground in graceful ribbons, crimson blood pooling around them, and then suddenly the image makes him frown, because he thinks about how the blood would mat and ruin her curls. Distort it, steal their natural beauty. It would be better, he thinks, to snap her neck. Only a simple mark left behind—or even not, if he just keeps pulling her head back and waits for the soft _crack_ of vertebrae breaking in one final note—and nothing would be disturbed with her pale features and her thick hair. She would leave a beautiful and young corpse behind.

Slowly, he pockets the knife, exhaling slowly, carefully recomposing himself. His other hand slowly begins to withdraw from her hair, but then, with the same delicate touch as before, she sets a hand to his wrist and he looks down to meet her gaze, mostly curious but a little surprised.

“You do not have to stop.” She whispers, almost shyly, but without an averted gaze or nervous nibbling of her lip. Instead, she holds his stare and continues, “Your touch does not hurt.”

Something about her tone, the hollowness of it, the way she speaks the words openly and honestly and barely blinks while she says it, makes him pause. “Does it hurt when your father touches you, Iris?”

She shakes her head, though it is a short, controlled motion, once to the left and once to the right, nothing more and nothing less. “Father does not touch me.” She answers in the same murmur; he becomes aware of her thin fingertips brushing the joint of his wrist. “But Mother does, sometimes.”

Another pause, and then, in a whisper, “It hurts when she touches me.”

He says nothing, and she is equally silent. Her hand does not move from his wrist, and he doesn’t take his hand from her hair, not immediately. He stands perfectly still, watching her, looking in her eyes and across her face, examining every last detail. The moonlight brushes here and there, its previous glow hindered by his shadow, but it still gleams within her eyes.

She has very, very beautiful eyes. Clear pools of blue, suspended on her face and framed by dark lashes. _Eyes are windows to the soul._ If that is true, then he wonders about the nature and state of her soul, because for as vibrant and pure as her eyes are, they are empty. No fear, no anxiety, no relief that the knife is no longer pressed to her throat. Hers are the empty, hollow eyes of someone who has no soul.

Or, the thought suddenly occurs to him, someone who has built walls so thoroughly around her soul that no one can even glimpse what lies beneath. Or maybe she truly has no soul. Maybe _she_ doesn’t even know.

Wordlessly, he steps a little closer and brings his free hand up to her face, matching the movement with the other. Her fingers slide away from his wrist, releasing him, and she holds his gaze. Doesn’t even blink. Blue eyes become pale in the moonlight, almost like two diamonds. Pale eyes, pale face. A pretty doll with a white face, big eyes, dark hair. A doll that’s been tossed across the room, beaten against the wall, kicked along the floor, and stomped on one too many times.

He idly weaves his fingers through those dark silk locks, tangling deeper and further until he’s cupping her head completely, cradling it between both palms. He knows his hands are not small, but they seem exceptionally large right now, wrapped around her head and crumpling her black curls against his hands.

He could crush her skull. His hands are large enough and her head is small enough. If he places the right pressure in the right place, her head will be crushed. He could lower his hands to her throat, clench and twist, and snap her neck. He could follow his earlier thought and take these curls within his grasp, pull and pull and pull and wait for her neck to snap that way. There are so many different ways to kill her. He wouldn’t even need his knife, or his gun. He could do it with his bare hands. It would be very, very easy. And she will make such a beautiful corpse, pale and cold beneath the winter’s chill. If he does it right, he can make her look just like an image from fairytales. _The pretty princess, waiting for a prince to come and kiss her awake._

His thumbs brush over her temples, and his fingers splay wide within her curls. Her eyes close, slowly, and her breath escapes in a soft, delicate sound. The cold emptiness of her expression fades, melts away, and for the first time she looks her age. She looks young, a child on the brink of becoming a teenager, innocent, and very broken. She looks like someone who has never been touched in a way that doesn’t leave bruises or marks, even the kind that can’t be seen with the human eye. She looks like someone who has been thoroughly, irrevocably damaged by the people who raised her. _A broken little doll…_

He’s seen people broken. He’s often been the one responsible for breaking them. He’s turned women into sobbing, bloodied pulps of limbs; he’s turned men into hollow shells, all pride and dignity gone, looking blankly up into the barrel of his gun. He breaks people all the time. 

But he can’t break this one. She’s already broken. A broken, battered, exquisitely beautiful doll.

He leans forward, without a word or sound to hint at his next course of action, and presses his lips to her brow. Her body shudders, not violently, but enough that he feels it, feels it through the connection of his mouth to her skin, his hands in her hair, his body barely a breath from hers.

When he pulls away, he finds her eyes open, seeking his, finding his, and holding his gaze for another long minute. Her fingers curl once more around his wrists, and she releases another slow breath. “Are you going to kill me, Mr. Zsasz?”

She asks the question so casually, a matter-of-fact tone devoid of any real attached emotion. It’s almost as though she doesn’t know that question is supposed to be asked with tears in the eyes and trembling lips and weak whimpers. She asks as if it’s the most natural question for this moment and these circumstances. Which, yes, it is, but not like that. Not as though she’s almost disappointed.

“Not tonight.” He finally answers, letting his hands fall away from her face and resting at his sides. _Not tonight._ Another night. But not this night.

***

“Iris! _Iris!!_ ”

Marcus DeLaine’s voice erupts within the foyer, echoing throughout the cavernous space, even before his footsteps announce his approach. When he finally rounds the corner, tall and dark-haired and dressed in dark slacks and a white dress shirt that’s unbuttoned to his collarbone and sleeves rolled up to both elbows, it’s with a very obvious sway and stumble, nearly falling into the wall, to showcase how thoroughly drunk he is right now. He uses one hand to brace himself on the wall, straighten up, and focus his red-rimmed eyes on the young girl standing in the hallway.

“Iris,” he repeats, again, and her name sounds a bit like a curse than a christening title, “you went outside, did you not?” His accent, otherwise dulled in the public sphere and when addressing the media, is very audible. “You are never to go outside. You know this! Why did you disobey me? _Why?_ ”

“Calm down, Mr. DeLaine,” Victor says, stepping up behind her and resting a hand on her shoulder; she seems to relax a bit at his touch, at his presence—the same presence which makes most people extremely agitated and uncomfortable—and even leans a little bit into the shape of his palm and the fit of his fingers, “Iris and I went for a little walk. She looked like she could use some fresh air.”

The taller man pauses, leaning heavily against the wall, taking in this strange figure in his house who is standing very close to his daughter; Victor can see the thoughts forming, the wheels slowly turning within the man’s head. He can figure most people out very quickly and with little effort. When the person in question is highly intoxicated, it makes it even easier.

“Who the hell are you?” DeLaine finally demands, ever so eloquently. 

He simply smirks and squeezes Iris’ shoulder. She looks up at him, blue eyes seeming darker now that moonlight is not upon them, and he graces her with a thin smile. “Why don’t you go back to the piano, Iris?” he murmurs, lifting one hand to her face and giving an affectionate little stroke to her cheek, “Your father and I need to have a chat.”

Iris complies, without question and without protest, and though she barely casts a look at her father in her path back to the piano, she does pause at the corner, looks back at Victor for a moment, and then disappears. Marcus scowls, likewise doesn’t look at his daughter, and takes a step forward. “Answer my question.”

“Victor Zsasz.” He answers, wholly unconcerned at the advancing motion. He rests a hand at his waist, feeling his holstered gun, hidden within the folds of his jacket, for now, and tucks away a smile at the feel of its slick metal beneath his fingertips. “I’m here on behalf of Don Falcone.” He cocks his head slightly. “You’ve made him a little grumpy, Mr. DeLaine.”

The other one throws an amused, highly arrogant smirk. “Have I?” he drawls, taking a slow step forward. “And he sent you to make the point, did he?”

“He did.”

“Hmm,” his smirk grows; Victor would very much like to cut it off his face, if only because he does not wear it well, at all, and is an embarrassment to the rest of the human race who know how to smirk and actually do it right, “I would have thought the old man could send someone who actually does his job.”

Victor shrugs and takes an idle step forward. “I know men like you, Mr. DeLaine.” He says, tone still smooth and calm, eyes straightforward and steady; he can see the other man looking him over for weakness, and there will be none to find. “Men who think they’re on top of the world, who think they sit on a throne and all the little people bow down to them. Men who think they’re untouchable. Invulnerable.”

He steps closer, and now he can see the smirk fading off Marcus’ face. It’s replaced with an agitated scowl and an attempt to stand straighter, to match the stance of the younger, smaller man drawing near, but the liquor and other assorted booze likely running through his bloodstream makes it a little difficult. He’s hard-pressed to not smirk. “Funny thing is,” he continues instead, “no one is actually untouchable. That’s why Don Falcone called me. Because he knows I’m good at many things. Including finding people who don’t want to be found. Hence the reason we’re having this conversation.”

The tension increases, both within the room and across the older man’s face. Yet still, DeLaine tries for bravado, taking an unsteady step forward and folding his arms tightly, albeit rather clumsily, and replies, coolly, “You think I am afraid of you, little boy? You had the little lamb in your grasp and you could not even kill her.”

Now he does grin, briefly but broadly, and shakes his head. “She’s many things, Mr. DeLaine,” he murmurs, eyes drifting briefly to the sound of her music, filling the air with soft, sweet notes, and he can see the movement of her thin hands across the ivory keys, playing across his inner eye like a nostalgic film, “but _little lamb_ isn’t quite the term you’re looking for.”

DeLaine scoffs, loudly, and jerks his head in the same direction. “You are so impressed with her,” he says, tone dismissive, “take her. Make something worthwhile of her.”

In that moment, the smile fades from his face and Victor feels something—something he can’t quite identify at the present moment, but nevertheless is very real, very apparent, and very unpleasant—tighten inside him at that statement. Usually when he _takes_ something, it’s a life. He takes many lives, either immediately or after he’s worked on the individual person a few times. He takes lives without pause, without question, and with great satisfaction.

But DeLaine isn’t inviting him to take a life. He’s inviting him to take something else. Something that only the basest and most deplorable specimens of humanity would take, with the same satisfaction that he personally takes a life. And to offer up his own daughter like that, a little lamb to the wolf…it’s disgusting. More so, it’s incredibly insulting, because Victor Zsasz is many things but he is not and will never be _that_.

“You underestimate her, Marcus.” He finally replies, voice low and tight and he knows the other man hears the distinct change in tone because he shifts back a little, as though distancing himself will be the key to rectifying his very stupid mistake, “You underestimate that girl greatly. You think you have her broken and wrapped around your finger, but you don’t.”

“You know nothing.” DeLaine snaps, but the anxiety is still present in his eyes. “She is my child, not yours. You know nothing.”

“You know even less.” Victor returns, lips curving up into a thin, cold expression. “You think she’s weak, but she’s not. You, and your dearly beloved, have no idea who and what she is. But I do. And one day, she will be the final bullet in your head.”

***

Mr. Zsasz left the house that night as silently as he came. She heard him speaking with her father, but could not hear the words exchanged. She only heard how they stopped talking at one point, and then the faint echo of departing footsteps, the opening and closing of the door, and silence once again. Mr. Zsasz left, as silently as he came, and she felt a little stab of disappointment that he did not say goodbye. But she must conclude he will return, because he did not take what he came for. Surely he will return. It seems logical, if she read him correctly, that he would not leave, not for long, without taking his intended prize.

The next morning, they return to the city. Father and Mother have had their time away from the public sphere, have had one of their nightly conversations and exchanged the usual terms of endearment, where there are no neighbors to overhear and call the police, and now they return to home with fake smiles and gratitude to the neighbors for watching over the house. Father says nothing more to her about Mr. Zsasz and his visit, or what was said between them. He doesn’t say anything to her, in fact. And Mother says even less.

She puts herself to bed that night, as she often does, changing out her white day-dress for a white nightdress, washes her face and brushes out her curls. Then, she tucks herself onto the window seat, atop the white feather cushions, and gazes out at the moon. It’s still hovering in the sky, a bright and beaming orb of silver light in the pitch-black sky. Still there, still beautiful, still vibrant.

She touches her forehead, placing her fingertips where his lips had been, and presses firmly. If she presses hard enough, perhaps the imprint of his touch will stay there, like a brand. She would like that. She would like that very, very much. He did not hurt her, and it would be nice to remember such a gesture forever.

From down the hall, she hears Mother and Father arguing again. She’s a little surprised, because usually this is why they leave for the private manor, and no arguments occur here in the city. But, apparently, she was wrong.

This time, it’s in English. She hears Mother curse him with very explicit terms, christen him a drunken failure, a useless weight around her ankle that traps her within a wretched and loveless marriage, a philandering waste of humanity who put a parasite within her womb. It’s not the first time she’s heard herself be referred to as a _parasite_. It is Mother’s favorite term of endearment.

Father replies in kind; he calls Mother a drug-addicted whore, a greater philanderer than he is in that she’d sleep with a wild horse if she could, and a variety of other insults that she cringes to hear. She cups both hands over her ears, trying to block out the words. She doesn’t want to hear anymore. She doesn’t want to be in this house anymore. She wants to be back outside, in the cold night air, beneath the moon. She wants to feel hands on her that don’t hurt, and lips that don’t curse her but instead kiss her like she’s a tender treasure. She isn’t, but she’d like to pretend she is, again, just for a little bit.

The sound of her bedroom door being kicked open cuts through her thoughts and brings her eyes away from the moon to where Father is leaning against the frame, staring at her. She looks into his eyes for a moment, then down to his right hand. He is carrying a gun. He is walking towards her, carrying a gun.

He stops a short distance away and lifts the gun to her face, to her head. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. _No._ No, he can’t. He can’t hurt her there, or he’ll destroy everything. If he hurts her there, he’ll take away the memory. He can’t take it away. Mr. Zsasz touched her there. It was his gift to her. She can’t lose it. She can’t.

“No?” Father whispers, tone mocking as he steps closer, cocking the gun, “If you want to beg, Iris, use words. I am in no mood to read minds tonight.”

She blinks and curls inward, fingers fisting on the cushions. _No._ She will not let him take it away. She won’t. That kiss, that touch…it is hers. He has no right to it. 

“You will not touch me.”

Her voice is soft, and Father is not impressed, or moved, or swayed by her words. “You do not command me, little girl.” He continues in the same low tone. “I am your father. I brought you into this world.” He presses the barrel to her forehead, “And I will take you from this world.”

Her heart clenches tight within her chest. _No._ He will not do this. He can place that gun anywhere else he wants, and she will not fight him. But he will _not_ threaten to put a bullet there, in that precious place, in the one place she has been touched without violence and cruelty and hatred. He will not taint this precious memory.

“You will not.” She whispers again, willing her eyes to not waver and show her determination, her resolve that she will not lose the only good thing she still has in this life. “You think you are so strong, that I will fall apart and beg you for mercy. I will not. You think when you kill me, you will win, you will finally rid yourself of the little parasite. You will not.”

Slowly, feeling the barrel pressed still against her brow, leaving a little indent in her skin, she slips off the little seat and stands before him. She will not be on her knees. She will not bow like a little mouse. Right now, she is not in her bedroom with her father pressing a gun to her head. She is in the woods and there are pale hands with long fingers in her hair and thin lips against her brow. She is looking into blue eyes that gleam like moonlight and gaze down into hers. She is standing before the power of a tiger in the night, his teeth bared and claws sharp and gaze hungering for blood, and she is touching his paws and feeling the beat of his heart and she is safe in his shadow. 

She touched the tiger sent to kill her, stood before him with grace and dignity and without fear. She will not kneel in terror before this man, this broken creature who pales in comparison. She will _not_.

“You will kill me,” she whispers, “and you will gain nothing. You will not have my tears. You will not have my hate. You will have nothing.” Her eyes narrow, holding his empty gaze, and her jaw tightens. “Perhaps in time, I will come to hate you, Marcus. But tonight…I feel nothing. I feel nothing, because you are nothing.”

She watches, silently, eyes taking in every detail, as his face changes. The resolve fades from his expression, dissolving and breaking apart like snow melting beneath the sunlight. Suddenly, he looks older. He looks thin and sickly and broken. He looks as she’s always imagined he would without the cultured façade and expensive suits and practiced charm to protect him and disguise the ugliness underneath.

The gun lowers from her brow and returns to his side, to where it was when he first walked in here. He says nothing. After a short pause, he turns and walks away, exits her room and doesn’t close the door behind him. She hears him walk down the hallway, open another door. Mother— _Maria_ , she corrects herself, because one has to earn the title of _mother_ —says something she can’t hear, or at least can’t understand very well. It sounds like she’s asking why he is there, and what he is doing.

And then she hears the first gunshot. And another. And three more. And then a pause, a short reprieve of silence. And finally, she hears the sixth gunshot. And then it is truly silent.

***

The neighbors call for police response at the sound of gunshots, and soon the front lawn is lit up with flashing lights and people are walking across the manicured grass, in and out of the house, talking amongst each other, paying little attention to the girl tucked away in the corner. They’re more focused on the two bodies, addressing time of death and cause of death. She hears several of them making comments about her parents’ notorious marriage, and how it was only a matter of time before it came to this. A couple officers exchange money, and she can only assume a bet has been settled between them.

She sits in silence for several long minutes, wrapped loosely in a blanket with hands in her lap. And then she stands up, still wrapped in the blanket which is much too large for her, and walks out of the house. No one sees her, or if they do, no one stops her. She walks down the steps and down the driveway, the blanket trailing behind her like a queen’s royal robes, and makes it to the end of the property before she has to stop. She doesn’t know where she is going. 

There have been only a few times her parents ever took her into the city, and she was almost always restricted to staying in the car. She wouldn’t know where to go if she tried. This house is familiar. She knows it well. It’s better for her to stay here.

But she doesn’t want to stay here. Maybe if she just keeps walking, she’ll find her way. Maybe if she just walks and walks and walks, she’ll be found. Someone will find her. Perhaps a tiger in the night will find her, and draw her close within the folds of his shadow, and she’ll be taken away from this place. She just needs to keep walking.

She walks down to the end of the street, and then she stops again. The night is cold, and it’s starting to snow. The blanket suddenly feels very thin and her nightdress is doing nothing to protect her. She feels naked. And cold. And alone.

A voice from behind her suddenly calls out, and then there’s a uniformed policeman darting to her side and dropping to his knees in front of her. He looks very relieved to have found her. She remembers him from earlier, one of the first officers on the scene who had comforted and reassured her that everything was going to be alright. He repeats his words again, telling her everything will be alright. He has a kind face and compassionate eyes. He tells her his name is Jim Gordon, and that he’ll take care of her. He’ll take her to the hospital and make sure she’s healthy and safe.

This man is a good man, she knows. This man means well and is just trying to help, and he truly believes he is doing the right thing and thinks he is acting in her best interests. But she doesn’t want to go to the hospital. Hospitals are white, and she doesn’t like the color white; they smell of chemicals and medicine, and she doesn’t like strange smells and strange people and strange environments. She doesn’t want to go to the hospital, but they will make her go anyway, and therefore it’s not really in her best interests because it isn’t what she wants. 

And it’s not going to be alright. Her parents are dead. Her father put a gun to her head and nearly pulled the trigger. When he couldn’t do that, he killed her mother and then himself. It’s not going to be alright. She’s alone. She’s scared. She’s alone.

***

Victor hears about the deaths a week later, when the police department’s inability to keep a tight lid on high-profile cases is neatly demonstrated with a full-page spread across the morning paper and on every television screen throughout the city. The media laps every last detail up like a hungry dog, and invents a couple for extra flavor: Marcus DeLaine happened upon his wife, likely engaging in one of her numerous affairs, and ends their marriage with five bullets; then, distraught with what he’s done and unable to live without her, put a sixth bullet in his head. 

He is severely tempted to make a public point about how Maria DeLaine was not, in all likelihood, entertaining a paramour in the house that night, but thinks better of it. He’d hate to be the one who saves the last tatter of her reputation from falling apart.

The newspaper and television reports alike make no proper mention of Iris. She is isolated to a single line at the bottom of the paper, a half-assed comment about the “young heiress to DeLaine Towers, now left an orphan by her parents’ wicked deeds”. She is reduced to a minor, insignificant detail about the case, cast aside for want of the sordid details that encompassed her parents’ marriage. It is a proverbial bullet he is obliged to swallow, while crumpling the paper between his hands and hurling it into the fireplace. Watching black-and-white images of Marcus and Maria DeLaine burn away to blackened scraps makes him feel a little better. Not much, but a little.

Don Falcone summons him for a private meeting two days later. He is greeted with a content smile and the offering of wine. “Not quite according to plan,” the elder says, stating the obvious, and settles back into his chair with glass in hand, “but beggars cannot be choosers. The end result is all that matters, not the means used in the process.” He lifts his glass with the smile still intact, like a father praising his beloved son. “Well done, young man. As always.”

He takes a thoughtful sip from the wine glass, more out of common courtesy than a real desire to taste the alcohol. He isn’t much for liquor or booze or anything in between. Sober is how he prefers to live life, but he also appreciates the rudeness in refusing what is offered.

After a short pause and three more sips from his glass, the satisfaction fades from Don Falcone’s face and he lifts his eyes to the younger man’s face. “And the girl?”

“What about her?” he asks quietly, staring vacantly at the fire crackling within its hearth. He keeps his tone indifferent, neutral, devoid of emotion. He looks as though he could care less about the girl and doesn’t know why Don Falcone is even asking about her.

“She’s alive, Victor.”

“She’s a child.” He replies in the same tone. “Barely thirteen. At best, she’ll end up in the foster system and be taken in by a halfway decent family. At worst, she’ll live on the streets and be dead by twenty-two.”

Iris has already been taken in by the foster system. He knows this because he made a point to find out. At best, she’ll possibly be taken in by a family with a white picket fence and two and a half kids with two parents who will treat her like a trauma victim, too damaged to really love and too famous to put out, and put her in therapy sessions she doesn’t need. At worst, she’ll live on the streets, learn to kill or be killed, and in time she’ll turn into just another monster that lives in shadows and seeks to live another day.

Don Falcone nods, takes another sip from his glass, and sighs heavily. “A true shame.” He murmurs, and his tone seems halfway genuine. “I wish you could have known what came before, Victor. Audrey, for example…I think you would have liked him. He kept law and order within his clan, had rules and enforced the punishment when they were broken. And Sylvia…”

The elder pauses, longer this time, and Victor is obliged to look over and take stock of the melancholy look on his face. This time, there is no mistaking the honesty of his emotions, briefly exposed and made even more apparent in the way he shakes his head, sips his wine, and finishes in a low murmur, “I miss that woman. I miss her greatly.”

Victor says nothing. There are secrets in everyone’s life, and some of them he doesn’t need to know. Actually, he doesn’t want to know.

He is excused shortly thereafter, and he makes his exit without hesitation or pause. The hour is late, the sun lowering itself and leaving a wild array of color across the sky. Soon, it will be dark. He wonders if there will be a full moon out tonight.

From Don Falcone’s manor, he takes the half-empty paths throughout the city. Alleyways and back streets, where it is not uncommon to see strange people moving about, either idly or with intention, and no one will stop him to ask unnecessary questions. By the time he leaves the privacy of Gotham’s slums and reenters the respectable part of town, night has fallen and he must rely on streetlamps to illuminate his path. He doesn’t carry a flashlight or anything of that nature, and as a consequence is very talented at moving throughout darkness. He does it better than most, even those who live their lives in shadows.

It starts snowing five minutes later, delicate little flakes descending from the dark sky, illuminated by streetlights and the full moon hovering above. He can’t help but admire its presence tonight; it’s turning an otherwise dark, dreary night into something ripped from fairytale books and childhood dreams.

The place he’s looking for looms ahead, after he turns a couple corners and steps out into the street. Very tall, built sometime during the early years of the city’s foundation, by the looks of its crumbling exterior and cracked walkways, but the snow makes it somewhat more appealing to the eye. It blankets imperfections with white accents, hides the broken staircase and sidewalk, and catches small reflections of light from the rusted and stained lamps mounted along the exterior. Hardly something worthy of its newest resident, but it’s a roof over her head. Beggars can’t be choosers.

He walks along the property for a short while, eyes examining every window with great intent. Some are dark; others are lit but show only shapes and shadows to hint at their occupants’ identities. The lower levels are dark, though the hallways deeper within are not, and he can see silhouettes moving about. All appear to be tall, taller than a child, and he devotes attention instead to the upper levels. There are two stories above the lowest, each with windows and small ledges attached. The snow is gathering quickly on those ledges. No one seems to look outside and notice that it is in fact snowing, and take childish delight in the frost descending upon their little home. 

At some point, he recognizes a change in the air around him. Not tension, not fear, but something else. It takes him a minute to examine it, understand it, and then slowly turn around to the front porch.

The porch itself is uncovered, more a stacking of wood planks than anything of proper design; the snow falls freely upon it, as it does the figure standing there. The flakes catch within her hair, leave glimmering little paths across the dark curls, and cling to her nightdress. It’s a shabby piece of fabric, clearly borrowed and far too large for her; one shoulder is left completely bare, and the other is barely covered. Her feet are tucked into slippers that, likewise, don’t fit her, and she slowly steps out of them as she descends from the porch. Her exposed feet make matching impressions in the gathered snow; if she feels the cold, she doesn’t show it.

It’s very, very strange to see her now. Before, he wasn’t paying too much attention, and the white lace dress hid the more explicit details, but now that her figure is on display, he can see everything he missed before. She’s supposed to be thirteen; he knows that much just by knowing her day of her birth. But aside from her height, she doesn’t look it. Her body is too thin, too small; her hands and feet, by comparison, almost seem too large. Like part of her is stunted while the rest keeps growing. Maybe, someday, everything will catch up and she’ll look proportionate.

Tonight, however, the moonlight is clearly conspiring with the snowfall in recreating her image. Between silver rays on her face and exposed shoulders, snow scattered across her dark head and eyelashes, and the way she’s approaching him without pause or waver, she doesn’t look like a starved, emotionally-wrecked and devastated mess of humanity. Her thin shoulders are graceful, elegant, her legs long and smooth, her hands slender and thin. She looks older. She looks beautiful.

He missed her hands reaching for him, but they must have because the next thing he feels are her chilled fingers weaving their way around and between his, brushing palms against one another, curling tightly around his wrists and taking hold of him like a drowning man would a lifeline. It takes a minute of careful consideration, but then he mimics her gesture and coils his fingers around her wrists. His grasp swallows them; he can feel every bone and fragile joint that lingers just beneath the thin layer of skin and nearly non-existent layer of fat and muscle. She is halfway a walking skeleton, the living dead, one foot within the grave and the other still on solid ground.

He detests this dress, with a passion. She would have made a beautiful vision in the other, all white lace and soft silk, but this pitiful mess of thread ruins it all. She might as well just be naked, at least then she’ll be all pale skin and dark hair. But no…no, not even then. She’s too thin, too broken and distorted; she needs to grow, grow into herself. Then she’ll be something else, something beautiful and radiant and exquisite to behold. Then, and only then, he can make her perfect. He can make her a masterpiece.

Semi-conscious of the movement, he lowers himself to the snow, knees making identical imprints in the white blanket around them. They stand on equal level now, and he can see her eyes much more clearly at this height. Dark lashes are blotted with white flakes, but the moon has returned to illuminate and burn within those icy pools of blue.

“You found me again.”

He nods and shrugs idly. “I’m good at finding people.” He answers, voice low, “Especially those who don’t want to be found.”

She shifts a little closer; her feet have to be freezing by now, but she doesn’t say a word. “You are wrong on that account, Mr. Zsasz.” She whispers, each breath a little cloud around her lips. “I did. I did wish to be found.” 

He has no choice but to believe her, because she looks overwhelmingly relieved at his presence, and she takes a couple steps closer to bring herself almost flush to him, fingers curling tighter around his wrists. Her head tilts up, just a little, and she blinks away a couple snowflakes before continuing, “But you cannot stay, can you?”

“No.”

She doesn’t look surprised by the answer; again, she looks completely devoid of any real emotion. Most people feel disappointment, or if they’re very invested in the person, they may try to beg and plead. She doesn’t. It’s almost like she just doesn’t get it. Like she has no concept of how people are or aren’t supposed to respond, in any given situation, ranging from the benign to the extreme.

She’s like a mound of fresh clay, untouched and in need of his hands to mold her, conform her, and recreate her. She is an untouched, virgin canvas. He can be an artist with her.

“Will you find me again?” she whispers. “Even if I am taken from this place?”

He’s not quite sure if his growing expression is a smirk, a grin, or some strange combination thereof. Most people, either way, find an upward lift of the lips, on his face, highly unsettling and make a point of looking away; she traces the shape with her eyes for a short moment, then looks back at him, patiently awaiting his answer. Her fingers don’t feel as cold as they did earlier, and he hasn’t seen her shiver this entire time. She looks incredibly at ease with him, waiting taking in the look on his face with complete neutrality.

“As I said,” he murmurs, refusing to blink when it would mean severing the connection; even a split second would be too long, “I’m good at finding people. It’s what I do.”

Her dark eyebrows lift, and her head tilts a little, and part of him thinks she’s trying for amusement but just can’t make her facial muscles comply. “I think that is not all you do, Mr. Zsasz.”

“No, it’s not.” He murmurs; he tugs on their joined hands, just a little, to see what she will do, and feels a very acute sense of satisfaction at the way she draws closer still. Then, without care or concern or fear or anything else that he might have expected, she comes to rest against him. He is not a large man, he knows, but her thin, delicate frame fits against him as though he is, as though she could be engulfed in his shadow alone. Then, she crouches down on bare knee, sinking slightly into the building snow, and tucks her head beneath his jaw. Her curls are cold in the night air, but still soft, still like silk. He closes his eyes, tilts his head a fraction of an inch, and draws in the scent of her hair. He can smell something clinging to the strands. Something flowery, but not like cheap perfume. This smells more natural, more organic. It smells clean and pure and untainted.

It takes a minute, but then he realizes where her head is resting, and realizes she’s listening to his pulse, to his heartbeat. In any other circumstance, people would call it romantic, but this is not such a circumstance, not when, about five minutes later, he feels the subtle movement of her lips and soft puffs of breath. She’s counting the beats of his pulse.

He exhales, slowly, and adds, “Maybe someday I’ll tell you what else I do.”

“Someday,” she repeats, lips a ghosting presence near his collarbone, “Then you will find me again.”

It’s not a question, but he elects to answer anyway, with a question of his own. “Do you want me to find you again?”

“I do.” She murmurs, without pause, with honesty in her tone, and he wonders if she is or isn’t aware that she’s essentially looking for another date with the devil. “I would miss you, my tiger.”

_My tiger._ He says nothing, for a few minutes, just turns the words over in his head. _Like a tiger in the night_ , she’d said earlier. A tiger, a hunter who stalks prey and takes their lives with ease and leaves no survivors. A predator, outmatched by few and feared by many. A tiger. _A tiger in the night._

Wordlessly, he pulls his hands free of her small grasp; with ease, because she is virtually weightless, he catches her in his arms and stands upright once again. Proper manners probably dictate he not track snow inside this place, but he’s not one for proper manners at the moment. Or, really, any other moment.

Fortunately, the halls are empty; people are still awake—he can hear quiet conversations and bodies moving about in various rooms—but no one bothers to come out and see him strolling down the corridors, up two flights of stairs, and to the last door on the right, per the directions she whispered to him a few seconds earlier. He didn’t need to ask, or command her to tell him. She provided it of her own free will. The thought makes him smile, even briefly, because it means she doesn’t care if he knows where she sleeps at night. It means she wants him to know.

He crouches down enough to put her on the mattress, atop the blankets, and slowly unwraps his arms from around her. She tucks herself in, legs neatly folded beside her, and sighs, quietly, “When?” she murmurs.

He smiles, again, and she doesn’t cringe or look away, again, and he leans forward to rest both hands alongside her small shape. She is so very small. But he doesn’t think she’ll stay that way. He’s quite confident, actually, that she’ll grow up very quickly. But not too quickly. He has work to do with her. He has so much work to do with her.

“Let me surprise you, Iris.” He croons softly.

“I do not know if I like surprises.” She answers, tone equally soft. “I have never been surprised before.”

His smile broadens and he leans a little closer. “You’ll like my surprises.” He promises, lifting one hand from the mattress to push her dark locks away and behind her ear. “I give _very_ good surprises.”

She considers him for another minute, then nods her agreement. “Then I will wait, Mr. Zsasz.”

When he leans even closer, the hand resting on her cheek venturing further into her hair, he hears her breath catch, and in the brief moment that his thumb brushes her pulse, he feels it skip, twice. But it’s not from fear. He knows fear. This isn’t fear.

He kisses her forehead again, then drops his lips down to her ear. She shivers a little, but doesn’t pull away; actually, she shifts forward, and her hands slowly find their way atop his other one, the hand resting on her bedcovers. When her fingers slip within reach, he responds by curling his fingers around hers and holding those thin hands securely in his grasp.

“I’d prefer,” he whispers in her ear, “if you would call me Victor.”


End file.
